The Best American Mystery Stories Part 14

"Gwen." Saying her name to the air, to the flapping tarps, to the cold.

"You don't say." Your father's gun comes out now. He taps it against his outer knee.

"Told her to tell you that's all she knew. I'd hid it here. Somewhere here."

"Lotta ground."

You nod.

Your father turns so you are facing, his hands crossed over his groin, the gun there, waiting.

"The kinda money that stone'll bring," your father says, "a man could retire."

"To what?" you say.

"Mexico."

"To what, though?" you say. "Mean old man like you? What else you got, you ain't stealing something, killing somebody, making sure no one alive has a good f.u.c.king day?"

The old man shrugs, and you watch his brain go to work, something bugging him finally, something he hasn't considered until now.

"It just come to me," he says.

"What's that?"

"You've known for, what, three years now that Gwen is no more?"

"Dead."

"If you like," your father says. "Dead."

"Yeah."

"Three years," your father says. "Lotta time to think."

You nod.

"Plan."

You give him another nod.

Your father looks down at the gun in his hand. "This going to fire?"

You shake your head.

Your father says, "It's loaded. I can feel the mag weight."

"Jack the slide," you say.

He gives it a few seconds and then tries. He yanks back hard, bending over a bit, but the slide is stone.

"Krazy Glue," you say. "Filled the barrel too."

You pull your hand from your pocket, open up the knife. You're very talented with a knife. Your father knows this. He's seen you win money this way, throwing knives at targets, dancing blades between your fingers in a blur.

You say, "Wherever you buried her, you're digging her out."

The old man nods. "I got a shovel in the trunk."

You shake your head. "With your hands."

Dawn is coming up, the sky bronzed with it along the lower reaches, when you let the old man use the shovel. His nails are gone, blood crusted black all over the older cuts, red seeping out of the newer ones. The old man broke down crying once. Another lime he got mean, told you you weren't his anyway, some wh.o.r.e's kid he found in a barrel, decided might come in useful on a missing-baby scam they were running back then.

You say, "Was this in Las Vegas? Or Idaho?"

When the shovel hits bone, you say, "Toss it back up here," and step back as the old man throws the shovel out of the grave.

The sun is up now, and you watch the old man claw away the dirt for a while, and then there she is, all black and rotted, bones exposed in some places, her rib cage reminding you of the scales of a large fish you saw dead on a beach once in Oregon.

The old man says, "Now what?" and tears flee his eyes and drip off his chin.

"What'd you do with her clothes?"

"Burned 'em."

"I mean, why'd you take 'em off in the first place?"

The old man looks back at the bones, says nothing.

"Look closer," you say. "Where her stomach used to be."

The old man squats, peering, and you pick up the shovel.

Until Gwen, you had no idea who you were. None. During Gwen, you knew. After Gwen, you're back to wondering.

You wait. The old man keeps c.o.c.king and rec.o.c.king his head to get a better angle, and finally, finally, he sees it.

"Well," he says, "I'll be d.a.m.ned."

You hit him in the head with the shovel, and the old man says, "Now, hold on," and you hit him again, seeing her face, the mole on her left breast, her laughing once with a mouth full of popcorn. The third swing makes the old man's head tilt funny on his neck, and you swing once more to be sure and then sit down, feet dangling into the grave.

You look at the blackened, shriveled thing lying below your father, and you see her face with the wind coming through the car and her hair in her teeth and her eyes seeing you and taking you into her like food, like blood, like what she needed to breathe, and you say, "I wish ..." and sit there for a long time with the sun beginning to warm the ground and warm your back and the breeze returning to make those tarps flutter again, desperate and soft.

"I wish I'd taken your picture," you say finally. "Just once."

And you sit there until it's almost noon and weep for not protecting her and weep for not being able to know her ever again, and weep for not knowing what your real name is, because whatever it is or could have been is buried with her, beneath your father, beneath the dirt you begin throwing back in.

LAURA LIPPMAN.

The Shoes.h.i.+ne Man's Regrets.

From Murder. . . and All That Jazz.

"BRUNO MAGLI?"

"Uh-uh. Bally."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Some kids get flashcards of farm animals when they're little. I think my mom showed me pictures of footwear cut from magazines. After all, she couldn't have her only daughter bringing home someone who wore white patent loafers, even in the official season between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Speaking of which - there's a full Towson."

"Wow - white shoes and white belt and white tie, and ten miles south of his natural habitat, the Baltimore County courthouse. I thought the full Towson was on the endangered clothing list."

"Bad taste never dies. It just keeps evolving."

Tess Monaghan and Whitney Talbot were standing outside the Bra.s.s Elephant on a soft June evening, studying the people ahead of them in the valet parking line. A laundry truck had blocked the driveway to the restaurant's lot, disrupting the usually smooth operation, so the restaurant's patrons were milling about, many agitated. There was muttered talk of symphony tickets and the Orioles game and the Herzog retrospective at the Charles Theatre.

But Tess and Whitney, mellowed by martinis, eggplant appetizers, and the perfect weather, had no particular place to go and no great urgency about getting there. They had started cataloging the clothes and accessories of those around them only because Tess had confided to Whitney that she was trying to sharpen her powers of observation. It was a reasonable exercise in self-improvement for a private detective - and a great sport for someone as congenitally catty as Whitney.

The two friends were inventorying another man's loafers - Florsheim, Tess thought, but Whitney said good old-fas.h.i.+oned Weejuns - when they noticed a glop of white on one toe. And then, as if by magic, a shoes.h.i.+ne man materialized at the elbow of the Weejun wearer's elbow.

"You got something there, mister. Want me to give you a quick s.h.i.+ne?"

Tess, still caught up in her game of cataloging, saw that the shoes.h.i.+ne man was old, but then, all shoes.h.i.+ne men seemed old these days. She often wondered where the next generation of shoes.h.i.+ne men would came from, if they were also on the verge of extinction, like the Towson types who sported white belts with white shoes. This man was thin, with a slight stoop to his shoulders and a tremble in his limbs, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped close. He must be on his way home from the train station or the Belvedere Hotel, Tess concluded, heading toward a bus stop on one of the major east-west streets farther south, near the city's center.

"What the - ?" Mr. Weejun was short and compact, with a yellow polo s.h.i.+rt tucked into lime green trousers. A golfer, Tess decided, noticing his florid face and sunburned bald spot. She was not happy to see him waiting for a car, given how many drinks he had tossed back in the Bra.s.s Elephant's Tusk Lounge. He was one of the people who kept braying about his Orioles tickets.

Now he extended his left foot, pointing his toe in a way that reminded Tess of the dancing hippos in Fantasia, and stared at the white smear on his shoe in anger and dismay.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said to the shoes.h.i.+ne man. "How did you get that s.h.i.+t on my shoe?"

"I didn't do anything, sir. I was just pa.s.sing by, and I saw that your shoe was dirty. Maybe you tracked in something in the restaurant."

"It's some sort of scam, isn't it?" The man appealed to the restless crowd, which was glad for any distraction at this point. "Anyone see how this guy got this c.r.a.p on my shoe?"

"He didn't," Whitney said, her voice cutting the air with her usual conviction. "It was on your shoe when you came out of the restaurant."

It wasn't what Mr. Weejun wanted to hear, so he ignored her.

"Yeah, you can clean my shoe," he told the old man. "Just don't expect a tip."

The shoes.h.i.+ne man sat down his box and went to work quickly. "Mayonnaise," he said, sponging the ma.s.s from the shoe with a cloth. "Or salad dressing. Something like that."

"I guess you'd know," Weejun said. "Since you put it there."

"No, sir. I wouldn't do a thing like that."

The shoes.h.i.+ne man was putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the man's second shoe when the valet pulled up in a Humvee. Taxicab yellow, Tess observed, still playing the game. Save the Bay license plates and a sticker that announced the man as a member of an exclusive downtown health club.

"Five dollars," the shoes.h.i.+ne man said, and Weejun pulled out a five with great ostentation - then handed it to the valet. "No rewards for scammers," he said with great satisfaction. But when he glanced around, apparently expecting some sort of affirmation for his boorishness, all he saw were shocked and disapproving faces.

With the curious logic of the disgraced, Weejun upped the ante, kicking the man's shoes.h.i.+ne kit so its contents spilled across the sidewalk. He then hopped into his Humvee, gunning the motor, although the effect of a quick getaway was somewhat spoiled by the fact that his emergency brake was on. The Humvee bucked, then shot forward with a squeal.

As the shoes.h.i.+ne man's hands reached for the spilled contents of his box, Tess saw him pick up a discarded soda can and throw it at the fender of the Humvee. It bounced off with a hollow, harmless sound, but the car stopped with a great squealing of brakes and Weejun emerged, spoiling for a fight. He threw himself on the shoes.h.i.+ne man.

But the older man was no patsy. He grabbed his empty box, landing it in his attacker's stomach with a solid, satisfying smack. Tess waited for someone, anyone, to do something, but no one moved. Reluctantly she waded in, tossing her cell phone to Whitney. Long-time friends who had once synched their movements in a women's four on the rowing team at Was.h.i.+ngton College, the two could still think in synch when necessary Whitney called 911 while Tess grabbed Weejun by the collar and uttered a piercing scream as close to his ear as possible. "Stop it, a.s.shole. The cops are coming."

The man nodded, seemed to compose himself - then charged the shoes.h.i.+ne man again. Tess tried to hold him back by the belt, and he turned back, swinging out wildly, hitting her in the chin. Sad to say, this physical contact galvanized the crowd in a way that his attack on an elderly black man had not. By the time the blue-and-whites rolled up, the valet parkers were holding Weejun and Whitney was examining the fast-developing bruise on Tess's jaw with great satisfaction.

"You are so going to file charges against this a.s.shole," she said.

"Well, I'm going to file charges against him, then," Weejun brayed, unrepentant. "He started the whole thing."

The patrol cop was in his midthirties, a seasoned officer who had broken up his share of fights, although probably not in this neighborhood. "If anyone's adamant about filing a report, it can be done, but it will involve about four hours down at the district."

That dimmed everyone's enthusiasm, even Whitney's.

"Good," the cop said. "I'll just take the bare details and let everyone go."

The laundry truck moved, the valet parking attendants regained their usual efficiency, and the crowd moved on, more anxious about their destinations than this bit of street theater. The shoes.h.i.+ne man started to walk away, but the cop motioned for him to stay, taking names and calling them in, along with DOBs. "Just routine," he told Tess, but his expression soon changed in a way that indicated the matter was anything but routine. He walked away from them, out of earshot, clicking the two-way on his shoulder on and off.

"You can go," he said to Whitney and Tess upon returning. "But I gotta take him in. There's a warrant."

"Him?" Whitney asked hopefully, jerking her chin at Weejun.

"No, him." The cop looked genuinely regretful. "Could be a mix-up, could be someone else using his name and DOB, but I still have to take him downtown."

"What's the warrant for?" Tess asked.

"Murder, if you really want to know."

Weejun looked at once gleeful and frightened, as if he were wondering just whom he had taken on in this fight. It would make quite a brag around the country club, Tess thought. He'd probably be telling his buddies he had taken on a homicidal maniac and won.

Yet the shoes.h.i.+ne man was utterly composed. He did not protest his innocence or insist that it was all a mistake, things that even a guilty man might have said under the circ.u.mstances. He simply sighed, cast his eyes toward the sky, as if asking a quick favor from his deity of choice, then said: "I'd like to gather up my things, if I could."

"It's the d.a.m.nedest thing, Tess. He couldn't confess fast enough. Didn't want a lawyer, didn't ask any questions, just sat down and began talking as fast as he could."

Homicide detective Martin Tull, Tess's only real friend in the Baltimore Police Department, had caught the shoes.h.i.+ne man's case simply by answering the phone when the patrol cop called him about the warrant. He should be thrilled - it was an easy stat, about as easy as they come. No matter how old the case, it counted toward the current year's total of solved homicides.

"It's a little too easy," Tull said, sitting with Tess on a bench near one of their favorite coffeehouses, watching the water taxis zip back and forth across the Inner Harbor.